


The Body and Mind Divide

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bodies want what they want, M/M, a rapey not-rape, consenting captive sex, dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-06 23:08:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6774028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is pre-canon, Sherlock still an addict, Mycroft not yet fully The British Government, Lestrade a Detective Sergeant, unhappily maried. The start of a very messy relationship, but one that is welcome on both sides in spite of al the dysfunction involved.</p><p>I am not going to try to claim this is a healthy relationship. I am going to hope very much that it is plausibly human.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Body and Mind Divide

“I’ve got something for you, brother-mine.”

Mycroft’s hair rose, and he tried not to crush the mobile phone. Sherlock’s voice was rushy, out-of-control—the voice of his addiction. The older brother licked his lips, already terrified what trouble his baby brother was bringing with him this time.

“Sherlock…”

“Consider it a belated birthday present,” Sherlock continued, ignoring the interruption. “You’ll like it.”

Oh, God—that salacious note. Mycroft fought down a whine. That was the note Sherlock found right before he began spewing the most appalling filth: deductions too true to ignore, too false—and too darkly taboo—to ever do much with beyond ramming it all back into his subconscious and praying he could keep the ideas there.

“After all, you don’t want me straight and uninterested and you won’t take me drugged and horny.”

Shut up, Sherlock…

“Not even when I beg for it…”

As though there were not already more than enough reasons to want you to get clean…

“Now you won’t even fight with me any more…”

The whine in the voice, the anger beneath the whine...

Of course Mycroft would no longer fight—would let Sherlock attack him without any attempt at defense, would never again win—only to find himself holding down a slim, aroused baby-brother who was clinging tight and moving for Mycroft’s flies. Surrender before Sherlock could reach that state of arousal was better. Acceptance of bruises, strains, even breaks was better.

“Sherlock,” he said again, wearily, “You do understand. When you’re sober, you understand.”

“Complicates an already too complex relationship, adds betrayal and desire to an already unequal power dynamic,” Sherlock quoted back, putting a degree of resentment into each word that he spared Mycroft when he was not drugged. “Yes. I know. Bastard.”

“You’re not even interested when you’re not flying,” Mycroft pointed out, for the hundredth time. Who knew why Sherlock only wanted Mycroft when Sherlock was higher than a kite? Who knew why Mycroft only found it tempting when Sherlock, higher than a kite, writhed out of control under him, arms pinned, hips rolling up to meet big-brother’s?

“You’ve got to get sober,” Mycroft husked.

“You’ve got to open your birthday present,” Sherlock murmured back. “You’re going to love him.”

The words woke new terror. “Sherlock…what have you done?”

“Oh, very little,” Sherlock said. “Though he’s going to wake up, soon. I wouldn’t leave him too long—he won’t be happy if he’s tied up too long.”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft forced himself to gather his wits, form his thoughts. “Where?” That was the first question.

“Your flat.”

Mycroft swore softly. “Emergency services needed? Did you hurt him? Drug him?”

He could almost see the sulky little moue as Sherlock shrugged that off. “A bit of a roofie. Hardly a recreational dose, and not enough to do any damage. I doubt he’d thank you if you came crashing in with the paramedics.” He gave a high-pitched giggle. “Or the police. He definitely would not appreciate a police presence…”

What kind of criminal had Sherlock drugged and dumped in Mycroft’s flat? No—better not to ask. Better to go, quietly, now, and pray this was not as big a disaster as it sounded.

“Sherlock—I’m hanging up, now, and going to rescue your damned victim. We’ll talk later, but there are priorities to consider…” Mycroft was already doing a complex analysis of the possible outcomes of Sherlock’s notion of a “birthday present.”

Fuck. Why couldn’t the boy have got him the One Ring of Mordor, if he had to go in for troublesome birthday presents? Kidnap with intent to engage in human trafficking. Or at least give his brother an unrequested fuck-toy…

Mycroft closed off the connection to Sherlock, then used his desk intercom to connect with the new PA who’d come with his latest promotion.

“Miss Anders? I’m afraid I’ve had an emergency call from my…family. My brother’s left me a mess to take care of before my parents hear of it. Can you please clear my schedule for the afternoon and make my excuses?”

She paused before replying. He liked that in her: she thought before she spoke, and she showed signs of thinking complex things—things that weighed many variables and came up with sensible answers that Mycroft could later live with. After a time she said, “Yes. I believe that can be done. I may even be able to turn it to your advantage. Mr. Lung is entirely too sure he has the upper hand in your interactions. I shall…reeducate him in a way he will not find too offensive. Consider yourself free, sir.”

“Thank you,” he said, embarrassed at the fervor of his voice. But, God—he was learning that there was no luxury, none in all the world, like a good PA. After a moment of thought he said, more warily, “Miss Anders, as I said, my brother has caused some difficulty. Is there a chance I can rely on you for support and advice if I should find out later that his actions are, err…”

“Beyond the pale?”

“Rather. Yes. Sherlock seldom does anything I would wish to lay claim to, but he occasionally does things to which I would wish to avoid all responsibility in as dramatic a way as possible.”

She again considered. After her consideration, she said, “You are quite the best boss I have been given to date, sir, with quite the best likely career trajectory. And you are not unwilling to give me both authority and credit. I think, all things being equal, sir, that I could go quite some way in your aid before feeling any desire to withdraw.”

“Thank you, my dear. You are a priceless jewel,” Mycroft murmured. Then he rose, grabbed his latest overcoat (bought after long months of consideration to raise him one more rank in formality compared to his fellow analysts), grabbed his car keys, and was gone.

His flat was on Pall Mall, opposite his club. He did not find that particularly Quixotic. He found Pall Mall convenient. He found his club, with its public rooms and its private rooms, convenient. He found his private, well-secured flat convenient. Why spread out geographically when he had already managed to colonize the perfect territory? He gave the doorman the key so the car could be parked, walked calmly to the elevator, and rode up to his floor…all the while looking for signs of Sherlock’s invasive entry.

The adrenaline was singing in his veins. He was a spy. He’d trained for field work, and done well at it for as long as he’d had to—the short stay he knew would justify future promotions into long-range planning an deployment of resources. He managed himself well. But he was terrified what his brother had done. More terrified still that, whatever he had done, he’d done it badly, under the influence of the drug. He’d kidnapped someone—that much was clear. But had he left them in a manner that could be survived? That could be forgiven? And who had he chosen, in his addled condition?

There were no clear indications of breaking and entering. Nor had the doorman commented on seeing Sherlock come through. Both suggested baby-brother had been at least semi-competent at the time of delivery-of-goods.

Mycroft unlocked the door of his flat…and paused, listening.

The sitting room was dim, the curtains drawn—but that was normal. Mycroft seldom opened the curtains even when he was home. In the day, they blocked out glare and sound. At night, why bother?

He inched through the room, listing in his mind what Sherlock had altered. Cushions removed from the sofa. A disarray on the tray that held the scotch bottle and glasses, with one glass left missing. The soft, wooly throws he kept around were gone.

He moved toward the bedroom, knowing in his gut that Sherlock’s present would be there, wrapped and waiting for Mycroft’s arrival. At least there was no sign Sherlock was still here, hoping to observe and comment on every interaction. That might have required fratricide. He eased open the door.

It was strange how difficult it was to evaluate a prone body in an odd position buried in wooly throws, and sunken slightly into a firm mattress. Mycroft was unsure if the man was tall or short, thin or fat, or anything. He was a mysterious shape in the shadows of Mycroft’s bedroom, lying on the bed, snoring..

Mycroft approached. Sherlock had been whimsical. However he’d secured his victim, he’d laid him on the bed, propped him carefully with sofa cushions, so his head and shoulders were at what looked like a reasonably comfortable angle. Then he’d draped him with wooly throws and bound them in place with Mycroft’s dressing gown sash. He’d tied the sash with a big bow. He’d covered the victim’s face very lightly with a teal-blue-and-lime throw in a delicate, open feather stitch.

Mycroft carefully drew the throw away from the victim’s face.

He shivered again.

Beautiful. A beautiful, beautiful man, made almost as though intended for an inverted gay fairly tale. Sleeping Beauty. Snow White in her glass coffin.

A Celtic face, Mycroft thought—more snub-nose and clear-browed and solid than lean and hawk-faced, though. A countryman’s face. He looked sweet natured, at least when sleeping. He had chestnut-brown hair turning dramatically silver, the white hair forming a bold, winged tiara framing his face. Older than Mycroft. Five years to a decade at most… roughly as much older than Mycroft as Mycroft was older than Sherlock.

That didn’t bode well…

Mycroft gingerly untied the bow of satin sash, and drew back more throws.

Sturdy, cobby, but in no way fat.

Dressed in the semi-formal suit of the common professional man: off the rack suit, blue. Horrible shoes—a clown-like combination of trainer and dress shoe intended to allow a man’s feet to survive more time in motion than an office job might usually suggest. A salesman, perhaps, on foot all day?

His hands were bound. His feet were bound, as were his knees. Sherlock had used duct tape. The broad silver tape had done no favors to the cheap suiting. A careful examination suggested that there had at one time been a similar patch over the man’s mouth, removed when the man fell asleep.

It was impossible to tell for sure how he’d been drugged. It was obvious by now that he had been, though. He slept on, as Mycroft cautiously explored his body, trying frantically not to hear Sherlock’s horrid, sexually suggestive commentary.

At least asleep the man was only residually attractive. Having dealt with Sherlock, a squirming, thrashing bundle of friction all aimed at encountering Mycroft’s erogenous zones, a gently sleeping victim was comparatively low-stress. Only Sherlock’s clear intent to give a sexual present colored the act of examination.

He appeared to be uninjured on the whole. His wrists were bruised—at some time Sherlock had locked them inside the curve of his long, powerful fingers, trained by hours and hours of violin playing. It was clear the two had fought—the other man carried slight bruises and abrasions. His lips were a bit puffy—had Sherlock attempted to nut the poor man? There was a clear purple splotch high on one cheekbone, and rug-burn and bruise marks on his fists. One pocket of his suit was torn.

Inside was—oh, dearie-dearie me, Sherlock—a warrant card and a fistful of zip-tie cuffs Sherlock appeared not to have considered putting to good use.

Mycroft read the card, doom falling upon him as he did.

DS Gregory Lestrade, MET, blah-blah-blah. A nice picture taken Mycroft would guess a few years before, when there was less silver in his hair and more youth in his face and body.

A Detective Sergeant. Oh, Sherlock, you could not have done me much less of a favor. You have kidnapped an officer of the law, bound him, drugged him, and left him as a sexual favor for me in my bed, in my locked flat. No one will believe it was at my behest—and no one will ever forget it happened, or that you thought it appropriate for me. And that’s assuming we can keep this poor bastard from hauling you in to court…

“This poor bastard” stirred, and he shifted from full unconsciousness to brooding half-waking.

Mycroft stepped one quick step backward, then cleared his throat. “Hello? Are you there, DS Lestrade? Wakey-wakey!”

The other man stirred more. Mycroft felt something unkind and unwelcome move in him. The man made adorable faces as he woke: innocent faces with soft, bewildered frowns and slowly growing awareness of his bound condition.

“Hello? Detective Sergeant? I need you to wake up so I can untie you…”

That seemed to penetrate. Lestrade sat up, wallowing among the sofa cushions and the wool throws. Mycroft, watching him fall and squirm, was glad he’d taken the precautionary step back. He’d already learned how his body responded even to brotherly thrashing. His body appeared to think friction was friction, with no familial element. Mycroft did not want to learn his body was equally unaware of the lack of consent.

“Um—if you’ll settle down I’ll be glad to help untape you,” he said. “I’m terribly sorry for all this. I assume you’ve come in conflict with my brother at some point during the past twenty-four hours?”

The detective slowly allowed himself to collapse and relax in the bog of pillows and wraps. He looked up, and Mycroft realized with anguished dismay that his eyes were beautiful—more beautiful than he had already been. They were dark brown, deer-like, shaped like fat almonds, wide-open and innocent. They took a masculine face and added an element of Renaissance mystery.

The man frowned, and twisted, and only then did his bound state hit Mycroft in the crotch. A beautiful man, wide-eyed and uncertain, bound up and offered to him in Mycroft’s bed.

Unf. Nggg.

Mycroft closed his eyes and took a slow, calming breath.

“I’m sorry. I am afraid this is likely to be my brother, Sherlock’s doing. If you give me a moment to find the scissors I can set you free.”

“Sherlock….”

The voice was beautiful, too, and a surprise. Commoner’s Estuary English, but educated Estuary fitting a man who would have to deal with all classes. A timbre and tone that invited instant affection, even as he growled the name out…

A teddy bear of a man, Mycroft thought, and regretted it still more, for the phrase blended too many elements, both erotic and merely sentimental. And, yet—so solid, so firm, not quite a hairy bear but a bearlet, perhaps. And a voice that even in anger was lovable…

“You do know Sherlock, then,” Mycroft said, forcing himself to look into the man’s face.

“Sonofabitch,” Lestrade growled. “Sonofabitch. He played me…”

“No doubt,” Mycroft said, regretfully. “He’s a talent for it, I’m afraid.” He held up the warrant card. “I’m sorry—I was trying to work out who you were and why you were in my bed. Would you like me to call your division?”

The following flood of profanity left no doubt in Mycroft’s mind that the last thing DS Lestrade wanted or needed was to have his division informed of his current condition and whereabouts. Better they should think he’d skived off to the nearest local and wasted his day placing bets on the ponies than that they learn he’d been tied up by Sherlock Holmes and left in bed.

Mycroft nodded, understandingly, summoning his best professional and diplomatic manner. “Quite. I could not agree more, Detective. In which case I’ll go find those scissors…”

He slipped out of the room as quickly as possible, and then took a moment just to calm himself.

He looked down at the warrant card, still in his hands. He studied the picture, picked up all the limited information the card offered. The man was currently assigned to the Kennington Police Station in Lambeth. He was five years older than Mycroft. His card case had the worn, polished, but cared-for look of something a man counted as a necessary and secretly beloved tool of his profession. Not that men loved necessary tools—but Mycroft knew, looking, that Lestrade’s heart had grown three sizes the day he received his warrant card and slipped it into its proper case. He’d kept the leather more or less—better than many did. Mycroft was quite sure he’d practiced flipping it open to be seen, considered how it looked in his hand, wondered if he and his hand and his face and his card formed a single, trustworthy block of information for those who encountered him.

He smiled, recalling the first day he’d been given the MI6 equivalent. He found he liked the older man…

I’d love anyone who could cuss Sherlock’s name like that, he told himself, and went for scissors and a glass of water.

He sat gingerly on the side of the bed upon his return, and gestured for Lestrade’s arms. “I think those, first,” he said.

Lestrade grimaced, and held his bound arms out. “I might be able to just slip out o’ the jacket,” he said. “Up over m’ head.”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft said. “But it would seem best to retain such dignity as a full suit allows.”

Lestrade laughed, bitterly. “Dignity’s off the list already,” he said, dour.

“Nevertheless.” Mycroft snipped, and snipped again, then set the scissors aside and pulled evenly, feeling the weave of the duct tape rip in a clean, straight line. He grabbed a corner, and pulled it from around the other man’s arms, then. “There. Feel free to have some water while I work on your legs.”

Lestrade grumbled. “Thanks, but I’m pretty sure that’s how he drugged me.”

“Ah. Well. Yes. That does reduce trust. But I’m not my brother.”

Lestrade studied him. “No. But you’ll understand if I’m a bit wary. He seemed to think you’d find a particular interest in me wrapped and tied and presented for your pleasure.”

Mycroft twitched. “He’s made something of a study of involuntary physical responses. Mine in particular. The organs are somewhat self-determining when you’ve got an arm full of writhing body aiming for your groin and a voice making explicit suggestions. It’s not as though I ever sought it or pursued it, though… Sherlock’s got issues. And chemical dependencies. Among other things.”

The MET detective studied Mycroft, who’d shifted down the bed and who now struggled to pick a snall, clean tear in the strapping over Lestrade’s knees and thighs. Sherlock had been fairly dedicated to that region, Mycroft found. There was more than one layer and more than one length of duct tape involved.

Lestrade grunted, listening to Mycroft’s commentary. “Your brother’s the devil and all,” he said, grim-voiced. “No sense of boundaries, no respect for authority, and an unappealing  knack of spotting a man’s weaknesses.”

Mycroft risked a glance up the bed and a smile. “Too fond of a second pint come evening, Detective Sergeant?”

Lestrade looked away, and blushed crimson. “Involuntary physical responses,” he muttered.

Ah, Mycroft thought, blushing his own rosy pink. He pinned you down, and writhed against you, and made filthy comments, and then blamed you for having a body with a mind of its own.

Unfortunately the notion provoked his own body. He shivered and tried to think less interesting thoughts.

“I’m afraid I’ll ruin these trousers.”

“Huh?”

“I can’t seem to find any way to get you free that won’t do something horrible to the fabric.”

Lestrade grunted. “Hell. They were cheapest I could find that looked fit for court,” he admitted. “Do what you have to.” Then, as  Mycroft wrenched at a layer of tape and forced it to tear, he said, “You’re a Holmes, then?”

“Mycroft. Sherlock’s older brother.” Mycroft paused, then fished in his own pocket. Blushing still more pink, he offered his own warrant card. “MI6. Analyst. Not that the card doesn’t tell you as much.”

A dark brow flew up, and Lestrade accepted the little case with its official card. “Oooh, well. My-my-my. Look at that. There you are, card and all, on the side of the sooty angels, and there’s Sherlock. What team is he fighting for?”

“Chaos,” Mycroft snapped, bitterly.

“Mmmmm.” Lestrade studied the card, then said, “I’ve got an MI5 one of these in my other work outfit,” he said, then. “The one wi’ the leather jacket and the tight jeans.”

“Undercover?”

“Terrorist division.”

Mycroft nodded. His work was aimed a different direction, but in certain senses all MI6 work intersected with aspects of anti-terror efforts.  “So—which are you? A MET officer who moonlights for MI5, or an MI5 officer undercover in the MET?”

“Depends on the day, I reckon.” Lestrade handed back Mycroft’s card. Mycroft had finished the last of the rips, and was just preparing to strip the tape away from his thighs. “Need help with that?”

“If you can lift your legs.”

The result was sufficient—yet unsettling to Mycroft. He leaned, half-under the arch of thigh and knee, his shoulder supporting the other man’s legs as he tugged away tape. Mind a little too sensitive to innuendo, he swore under his breath at Sherlock and his clever ideas.

“Yeah,” Lestrade agreed. “What’d he mean by ‘birthday present’?”

“He meant any excuse would do rattle my cage. He’s fond of putting me at a disadvantage. I suspect he quite dreamed of you thrashing and afraid, and me spread out over you trying to pin you, as I’ve had to pin him on occasion. He’s an addict, you see, and not always in his right mind.” He shivered, not wanting to admit that the memories of Sherlock moaning beneath him were evocative—and the imagined outcome with Lestrade more-so. “He is more than a little screwed up.” He sighed. “I won’t say I’m not, either, but so near as I can determine I’m within normal tolerances. Just—not sure what to do when Sherlock sets out to subvert my wiring. It would all be a bit easier if I were straight…but there it is. I’m not.”

Lestrade grunted, then said, warily. “Body wants what it wants, sunshine. Some bodies draw broader outlines than others.”

“Not that broad,” Mycroft growled. “Or not so long as my brain still functions.”

But the battle to pin Sherlock, to contain him, the warm body pressing against his crotch, the thrill of pinning Sherlock’s wrists—over his head, at his sides, holding him helpless—the constant provocation of invitation and accusation…

“It’s not easy to respond sensibly when he’s actively provoking the reverse,” he said, worn and depressed. “And I can honestly say there are things I have learned about my unconscious responses that I would have been quite as content not to know about.”

Lestrade made a small sound of wary agreement. “Adrenaline does strange things.”

“It does.” Mycroft pulled away the last of the tape. “And there’s something erotic in the act of confinement—containment. Especially when it’s all made explicit.” He ducked out from under Lestrade’s legs, using one palm to gingerly help the man lower his calves. “Nothing left but the ankles. Can you get to them, or did he manage to rule that out?” He offered the scissors.

Lestrade made a good effort, but it was quickly obvious Sherlock had taped too securely, making it difficult for Lestrade to draw his shins up, and more difficult to find a way around his own legs to attack the tape.

“Here—I’ll take care of it,” Mycroft said. He drew Lestrade’s calves over his own thighs, and began once more to pick at the silver duct tape. “He wants attention. For some reason he wants my attention. I don’t think the reason is sexual—but sexuality does appear to override my ability to not-engage. It’s more difficult.” He sighed heavily. “The last time I had to secure him before calling for medical assistance, we ended up… Truly, it was obscene. And he’s like a ferret—fast and agile. I think the touching, the suggestions—I think they’re only supposed to force me to notice him. But it’s so hard to determine that at the time.” He looked over, and said, softly, “I’m not sure why I am telling you this—except ‘this’ is what stuck you here in my bed like this. I am so sorry. I promise, I have taken him to rehab. I’ve done everything I know to take care of him. I never expected this.”

Lestrade looked back down his body at Mycroft, eyes brooding. “I tried to take him in, yesterday. He works wi’ us sometimes. The gov doesn’t half like it, but he’s proved to be a good consultant on occasion. Fuckin’ brilliant eye for detail. This morning, though…we got called out early. Nasty case. Your lad heard it through the street, so near as I can tell. Showed up just as sun was coming up. Stormed the place, told us moren’ we wanted to know about what happened to th’ lass before the bastard killed her. Sherlock says it’s a serial rapist and murderer. Daresay he’s right. He got going about how he pinned her down. How he held her still. What he did. What he made her do. How he made her feel. Pissed one of our constables off, he did, saying the girl’s body responded whether she wanted to or not. Medical examiner on site, though, said as how it added up. Man apparently knows the buttons to push. But then the guv wanted to close it up for the day, get the street open to traffic again. Your boy wasn’t havin’ it. Had a fit, then went storming off, and then we realized he’d taken evidence. Her panties. Not good, you know? Guv sent me after him.”

Mycroft bent over the other man’s legs, scissors barely moving. He sighed. “I’m sorry. You had to fight him, of course.”

“Yeah.”

Mycroft did not need a description to know that Sherlock, drugged, out of control, just off the murder site, would have writhed like a serpent, twisted, tossed his body over Lestrade’s, pinned his hands, arched against his groin, all the while spinning off babble combining his own awareness of his own body, awareness of Lestrade’s reactions, and commentary on how that illuminated the rape=murder.

“Bodies do have reflexive responses,” he said, softly. “It’s hard to forgive yourself, though—it feels so much like it must have been your own choice. And it’s exciting. Thrilling.” He looked over at the other man, and said, sorrowfully, ‘If you think Sherlock led you directly to the killer, he hasn’t. I was working a mission last night, then reporting after. I doubt very much I was available to rape anyone in time for a sun-up murder team to review the outcome.”

Lestrade nodded, eyes penetrating in spite of that. “You and Sherlock. Smart lads, both of you.”

“Not likely to work together on something like this.”

“I know,” Lestrade said. “I do have an idea what kind of testing they do on your sort. And I’d bet you could be tracked.”

Mycroft considered, then nodded. “Phone was with me the whole time. They can probably confirm it wasn’t near your site.”

“Sherlock, too?”

“No saying. But I don’t think he did the girl. I think the girl spiked something in him and made him do you…”

“I assure you, he didn’t ‘do’ me,” Lestrade growled.

But Mycroft could hear in the other man’s voice the echo of a long, lean body pressing against his, pinning his hands down, collecting them tight.

“Where did he get the damned duct tape?” Mycroft muttered.

“Nutted me hard enough to make me pass out,” Lestrade said, ruefully. “Then seems to have trotted down to the convenience store across the way, explaining about his friend who’d drunk too much and gone nutter and how he needed help tying me up and getting me in a cab home. Next thing I know Mr. Sayed Sing was sitting on my back lecturing me on the evils of strong drink, and Sherlock had my mouth taped over and was starting in on my hands. After that, it was a black cab to yours, and up the elevator, and there it is, and Bob’s me uncle.”

Mycroft got the final straps of tape free. He balled them up, then patted the strong shins in front of him, feeling the dense calves resting on his thighs. Lestrade appeared to be a footie player, or similar. Rugby, maybe? He was muscular and rounded, cobby as a pony. His body had felt lovely under Mycroft’s hands as he picked the other man free. All that spring, all that dense, firm flesh.,,

“Well,” he said, mouth dry. “That’s done, then. What do you want to do? If you feel you’ve got to bring Sherlock in, I’ll back you. But I will admit, I would so much rather you didn’t. I can probably have him sectioned or put into rehab again. I have a PA who’s a complete peach at sorting that sort of thing, and I daresay she’s been on it since he called this morning.”

Lestrade grimaced. “He should be brought in. He probably needs to be brought in. But my career does not need him brought in, and my guv’s case doesn’t need him brought in. I don’t think we’d either of us have much problem looking the other way if we knew you was bunkin’ him into rehab again.”

Mycroft nodded.

The man’s legs rested on his thighs, pinning him down. He could, he supposed, lift those legs. Or scramble from under them. The weight held them down, and the sense of being pinned stirred something in him, just as something had stirred when he’d pinned Sherlock tight to the ground and climbed on his body, sat on his pelvis to allow some control of the lower body as well as the upper.

Why was this so erotic, regardless of baby brothers or warrant-carded kidnapped police?

He slipped an arm under the other man’s calves, lifted, and tipped them down. He stood, collecting balls of gummed up duct tape. “I appreciate your tolerance,” he said. “Truly, I apologize. Sherlock’s not in the normal sense a criminal. But…he’s hardly a law-abiding citizen, either. And this time he went well beyond the limits. I never know, though, you see. I never know when the danger nights are, or what will trigger him, or how he’ll respond, or even what he really wants. So often what he seems to want is just—distraction. Illusion. He turns our fights into erotic titillation and gives you to me as provocation, and yet if he truly wanted me he would proceed quite otherwise. I’ve seen him pursue what he desires, and it is far more—direct.”

More brutal, Mycroft thought, as he considered his brother’s drive toward drugs, or his race toward self-destruction.

“People think in odd ways,” Lestrade said. “Been studying criminal psych for a couple years now, and I am not sure I can fit your brother on any of the scales.”

“Me either.” Mycroft found his face lifting—a smile blossoming. He held out a hand to shake the other man’s. “You’ve been too good.”

Lestrade took his hand, wrapping it in a square palm and neat fingers. “For a man who got an unwanted and unwilling birthday present, you’ve been a peach yourself.”

Mycroft looked at the hand holding his. “You’re married,” he said, blankly, staring at the gold ring.

“Not so much at the moment,” Lestrade said, wry and resigned. “She’s skived off with a gymnast. Says she needs time to think.”

“I’m not sure she’ll get much thinking done while grappling with a gymnast.” The observation was crude, and Mycroft flushed. “Sorry.”

“No. The same has occurred to me.” The other man’s hand tightened.

They were frozen in place.

Mycroft licked his lips.  He wanted to say quite a number of things, all of which suggested that this was a very bad idea. His body thought otherwise.

Lestrade, with a small sound of resignation, pulled firmly, tugging Mycroft closer. “Seems like it’s all planned for us,” he said, husky. “My wife. Your brother. Not like we expected it.”

“Bodies response how they will,” Mycroft said, his own cock responding with longing and enthusiasm. When Lestrade tugged again, he allowed himself to be tumbled forward, falling over the man.

They struggled, wallowing in the sofa cushions, in the woolly throws.  Mycroft pinned Lestrade’s wrists high over his head, climbed on his pelvis, felt cock against cock, both hard. He leaned forward, chest pinning the other man’s, mouth hovering over Lestrade’s.

Lestrade’s brown eyes were too knowing, smiled with too much heat and determination. Mycroft covered his mouth, tongued him deep, growled into him. Their hips rocked, and they raked cock over cock. Then Lestrade twisted like an eel, flipped them both, pinned Mycroft. He dragged the other man’s arms down, tucking his wrists in against his own thighs until Lestrade could pin them secure with his knees.

He began unpacking Mycroft.

“Pretty boy,” he said, fingers neat and nimble. “Pretty as a bird on a wire, and as neat." He eased Mycroft’s jacket back, and down, forcing it to roll and conform, capturing him in his own clothing. Mycroft whimpered—but was honest enough to admit it wasn’t a sound requesting freedom.

He lay under Lestrade’s demanding gaze. He knew he was seen—his body slightly arched already by arms pinned beneath him and the mass of the jacket. Were he a woman his breasts would have thrust forward in response to the torque. As it was his trim torso, clad tight in his waistcoat, stretched for Lestrade to enjoy.

Lestrade’s hands came up and petted him—long, soothing caresses like a man might give a cat.

“Good pussy,” he growled. “Good pussy cat.”

The implication set Mycroft’s cock alight, set it jerking with desire. He didn’t know why he needed this, but he needed it like he needed breath and water.

“Poor captive pussy cat.” Lestrade’s voice was so gorgeous. His eyes so soft and dark. His attack so generous and seductive. He leaned down, rolling his hips so his cock stroked Mycroft’s. “Happy birthday, pussy cat.”

Breath gusted out, forcing gasps, as Mycroft reacted. He shoved high, hips trying unconvincingly to buck Lestrade away.  Then Lestrade’s mouth hovered over Mycroft's. Then Mycroft traced his lips over Lestrade’s. Then Lestrade’s tongue traced the seam of his mouth. Then his mouth opened. Then Lestrade’s tongue dove in, twining, exploring.

They were both whining, voices keening and anguished and needy. Both cocks moving,moving, moving, inside the thin suiting of their trousers.

“We shouldn’t,” Mycroft managed to gasp, knowing this was not what he’d intended, right up until it had become impossible to imagine not doing it.

“Want it,” Lestrade growled. “Oh, fucking God, want it. Want you. Mine.” He’d wrapped his arms around Mycroft, pinning him still tighter. Between the hug and the jacket there was no chance of escape, and the claustrophobia both excited and frightened Mycroft.

They twisted where they were.

Mycroft’s mind supplied images…of himself stripped and Lestrade clothed. Of Mycroft pinned and  Lestrade pinning him. Of Mycroft spread open—Lestrade’s captive little pussy cat. Of Lestrade riding him, penetrating deep, never letting his arms free, never giving him a chance to avoid what he didn’t want to avoid in any case.

He whispered the images in Lestrade’s ear, panting, gasping, begging.

“Take me. Please, God, take me.”

Lestrade moaned. “Oh, pussy…what a sweet little moggie you are.”

They writhed, Lestrade making sure to fulfil Mycroft’s fantasy of never being free to fight. Mycroft writhed just enough to make the fantasy meaningful.

“Open you up?”

“No…”

He would hurt. It would hurt. He deserved to hurt—and he knew he’d adjust.

Tricky moves left him without trousers or pants, the clothes pooled over his ankles. Lestrade spat on his fingers, swathed Mycroft’s asshole with slick moisture, traced, teased—and drove in hard.

Mycroft screamed, freezing, arse spasming. Lestrade was stock-still, letting his partner adjust. As he felt the sphincter muscles soften, he said “Good?”

Mycroft cherished the feeling of it—the burn, the pain, the fullness, the sense of being obeyed, cherished himself. Capture and freedom. Rape and willing choice. Bodies have their own ideas about things.

“Good,” he gasped. “Oh, good. More. Hard.”

The pain never quite left—but it was matched by pleasure. It felt so good. Lestrade felt so good inside him. Mycroft bit the sofa cushion beneath him, eyes pouring tears over years of his drugged little brother, over the anguish of wanting what he did not want, over the pleasure of being taken by his captive birthday present…

He came in hard, jetting bursts, soiling the soft wool of the throws.

Only then did he choose to prove his competence and slip his arms from the sleeves of his jacket, spinning on his own long axis and gripping his captor, holding him captive. “God, that was good.”

Lestrade, captive, moaned agreement.

It was not the last time they came together. Sometimes it happened when Lestrade’s wife was once again gone walkabout. Other times not—they were not so virtuous as either wished. Sometimes it was slow and tender. Sometimes laughing and gentle. But they never quite got over the wild passion of bodies captured, arms pinned, instincts demanding what morals abjured.

Bodies want what they want—and Mycroft and Lestrade’s bodies wanted each other.


End file.
